


blitz

by rhymeswithpi



Series: limit break [10]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gladio is trying his best ok, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Introspection, Pre-Game(s), Touch Aversion, iggy is a bit of a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 18:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithpi/pseuds/rhymeswithpi
Summary: He can hear someone rummaging in his kitchen and this is it, he’s going to get robbed and killed and he can’t even move to defend himself. A fitting end for a failed advisor. He closes his eyes again. At least if he’s going to die, he can pretend to do it in his sleep with a littledignity.





	blitz

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the day after upheaval, ties in with Rough Divide.

At least the ceiling has a vaguely interesting pattern, he thinks. Not that he can actually _see_ the ceiling, glasses somewhere out of reach. Regardless, it’s held his attention for at least a few minutes at this point, a forced distraction from the pain every time he tries to get comfortable. He’d tried to reach his phone earlier, had to stretch to reach the nightstand, giving up when new pains flared up in places he didn’t even know _could_ hurt. It hadn’t been nearly this bad the night before, no more than a burning ache in his upper back. He’d just overexerted himself in training, that was all. And carried all his tension there. And maybe sleeping on Noct’s couch the night before hadn’t helped, and ok, fine, he’d definitely pushed it too far this time. A decent night’s sleep should’ve been enough to ease it, though, and now he can’t even convince himself to move to get some painkillers and take a hot shower. He _needs_ a shower, having skipped it after getting back last night.

He can hear his phone buzzing with new notifications and messages. He hopes Noct managed to get himself off to school alright without him there to drag him out of bed and put food in front of him (or _drive_ him there), but he knows Noct’s likely still in bed. If Noct even _went_ to bed, probably taking the opportunity to stay up far too late playing whatever game held his fancy at the moment. Oracle Quest. Something like that. He’s not even entirely sure what time it is, anyway, heavy curtains blocking the majority of the grey light outside, rain pattering against the window.

Just his luck, really. The rain just reminds him that he really needs to get to the bathroom. Maybe he can just do it all in one go, grab his phone on the way. Once he’s upright, it has to be better, right?

It’s definitely not better, he thinks, gasping for breath just from forcing himself to sit up. It’s several more minutes before he manages to swing his legs off the bed, wincing as the movement causes more pain. His phone is finally in reach, and he clumsily unplugs it from the charger. Almost noon. That answers that question, at least. He sends a quick text to Gladio to check on Noct before dropping his phone on his bed. Not that he _wants_ to talk to Gladio, but he can’t think of who else to ask.

If he doesn’t move his right arm, it’s almost bearable. Or turn his head. Or move at all, really, but his bladder is reminding him that’s _really_ not an option right now.

It’s a short trip to the bathroom, and it takes far longer than he’s willing to admit. He stares briefly at the shower, keenly aware that he’d have to undress to take advantage of it and desperately unwilling to move that much. At least he’s managed one of the things he needed to do, even if it’s as basic as relieving himself. He fumbles in the medicine cabinet for anything that might take the edge off, dry swallows a couple pills, and shuffles back to his bed.

He’s thirsty, he realises. The pills left a bitter taste behind, and the glass of water he usually keeps by his bed is empty, drained the night before. His bed is _right there_ , though. It would be so easy to just crawl back into it, pretend his shoulder isn’t screaming at him, ignore the horrible taste in his mouth. So much simpler than cataloguing and filing away the pain.

But his phone is still flashing notifications at him, likely from people wondering where he is and why he hasn’t shown up to any of his appointments so far. He sits heavily on his bed, regretting the movement as it jars his shoulder again. He’s pretty sure he’s narrowed the source down to his shoulder, at least.

Sitting down was definitely a mistake, he thinks, scrolling idly through missed messages. If dragging himself to the bathroom took that much effort, he dreads the walk to the kitchen. Trying to sleep again is sounding better and better. Definitely easier than trying to feed himself.

Easing himself back down onto his bed is far less painful than sitting up was. Maybe it’s the painkillers starting to kick in, or maybe it’s just a sign from the universe that going back to sleep is his best option. He closes his eyes and listens to the rain, finally not _un_ comfortable.

  


It’s dark the next time he’s aware of being awake. He can hear someone rummaging in his kitchen and this is it, he’s going to get robbed and killed and he can’t even move to defend himself. A fitting end for a failed advisor. He closes his eyes again. At least if he’s going to die, he can pretend to do it in his sleep with a little _dignity_.

They’re the worst robber ever, if that’s what they are, just based on how much noise they’re making in his kitchen. They’ll just bungle the whole _murder_ part of it and just leave him in more pain. There’s a clatter and a string of cursing, voice familiar. Probably not getting robbed, then. Probably. He fumbles for his phone, blindly reaching for where he thinks he left it before he’d given up on being awake yet again.

More missed messages. He swipes them off the screen, sighing to himself. An entire day gone. It’s well into evening by this point, and he dreads how much he’ll have to do in the coming days to make up for the accidental day off. Not that people expect much of him of late, with how erratic his attendance has been.

His stomach makes an unhappy noise. When had he last eaten? Painkillers didn’t count as a meal. Sitting up again is an ordeal, pain flaring through his entire back when he twists just wrong. It’s bearable, though, in the scheme of things; nothing like what he’s been through in the past. His mind reels, trying to rationalise why _this_ pain is so unbearable when he knows he’s been through much worse than this, why he’s missed an _entire day_ for this.

He stops that train of thought before it can gain any further ground, locks it carefully away. Instead, he should go find out just who’s in his kitchen. Maybe they brought food. Piece by piece, he breaks the pain down, tucks it away behind the door in his mind that he knows he should never, ever open. The locks fall into place, and while he’s aware it hurts, it’s nowhere near as disabling as it was that morning, more a minor annoyance. If he’s lucky, maybe it will _stay there_ like so many things haven’t been doing the last few weeks.

He’s standing up and moving more easily than before, but the trip down the hall to the kitchen still takes a small age. Gladio’s on the floor, muttering to himself as he cleans up something he dropped, slamming pans back on the countertop as he goes. He leans against the door frame and watches, careful to make sure he leans on his good shoulder, arms crossed over his chest.

A shirt might’ve been a good idea. It’s a bit colder out here than he remembers it being the day before, and he can feel his shoulder tensing up. Again, no more than a minor annoyance. Gladio finally looks up from where he’s kneeling, tossing the rag at the sink before standing and glancing him over.

Gladio’s clearly trying to find the _reason_ for this, figure out why he’s been absent from everything today. For _weeks_. He locks the pain down more, shoving even the annoyance into the corner of his mind, meets Gladio’s gaze. There’s a small sense of victory when Gladio looks away first, despite how _awkward_ this all is.

“You need to text Noct,” Gladio says, dusting off his pants. “I’d apologise for your kitchen, but come on. Who leaves pans on the counter like that? You were just _begging_ for someone to knock them down.”

“I was _planning_ on moving them. I just… didn’t.”

“Right. Anyway. Noct practically demanded I check on you, and I barely managed to talk him out of coming with me. He’s half-convinced you’re dead. Figured it’s not like you to miss a day, and you probably didn’t want him to see you like this.”

“And of course he told you how to get in.”

“Yeah. He _has_ been trying to talk to you all day, if you didn’t notice.”

Had he noticed? Had he actually _opened_ a single new message today? He shakes his head, wincing when it pulls against the ache in his shoulder. His phone’s somewhere back in his bedroom, or he’d check now. His stomach growls, and Gladio looks him over again.  
“Iggy, when’s the last time you ate?”

“Sometime yesterday,” he mutters.

“And you get on Noct’s case about eating properly,” Gladio says, shaking his head. “He’d have a fuckin’ field day if he knew he was right in sending me with food. Even told me which food cart to stop by on the way here.”

Anxiety builds in his stomach as Gladio steps closer. He’s already planning escape routes before he has a chance to shut it down.

“Shit, you smell _bad_. Go take a damn shower, Iggy.”

He shoves himself off the door frame with a sigh. It’s fair, really. He’s been meaning to shower all day, or at least during his brief battles with consciousness. It’s his own fault for not showering the night before, but in his defense, his bed had seemed far more welcoming at the time. Gladio doesn’t seem to be moving from where he’s standing, so he shuffles the short distance to the bathroom before there’s a chance he might stop him.

  


His hair is dripping water on his face, plastered awkwardly to his forehead. He grumbles as he slicks it back, pulling a face at just how _wet_ it is. His towel is still draped across his shoulders, and he _should_ be able to dry his own hair. It doesn’t hurt so much to move now, and this _shouldn’t_ be a problem he’s having.

The door swings open, and Gladio’s leaning on the door frame this time, _watching_ him. He looks pointedly at the floor, avoiding eye contact, vaguely thankful he at least managed to put his pyjama pants on before Gladio intruded.

Gladio is suddenly _way_ too close, weight settling on the mattress behind him, gently rubbing at his head with the towel. He can feel the heat off his skin, and it sets his teeth on edge. The urge to run is building again, held back only by the desire to not move unless absolutely necessary. He hasn’t had the time to lock everything away again, not properly. His fingers are twitching against the duvet, the one reaction he’ll allow himself right now.

“Settle down,” Gladio mutters. “Just trying to dry your hair.”

Apparently he’s not as good at hiding it as he thought. He forces himself into stillness, hands balled into fists against his thighs, tension building in his shoulder, pain starting to creep back in. Gladio's arm brushes his bare back, and he flinches away, wincing at the new stab of pain.

“Shit, Iggy, you really don't like being touched, do you?”

He hums a response, trying to force himself to relax, move past this new bit of pain. If that's not an oxymoron, he doesn't know what is. Relaxing shouldn't be forced.

“It's not just me, right?”

“No,” he mumbles. “It's not just you.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Gladio picks the towel up again, careful not to touch him this time, shifting back on the mattress. It’s not awful, he thinks. It could definitely be worse. He still wants to move away, put more space between them, get out of the range of accidental touches. Somewhere he can see it coming, steel himself for it. But it’s not bad, and the tension starts to melt out of his shoulders. Then Gladio ruffles his hair with the towel, and whatever sense of calm he's managed to regain goes right out the window again.

“Fuckin’ nerd.”

“Language,” he says, the word slipping out before he can stop it.

He’s missed this, these last few weeks. The easy banter, the knee-jerk reactions, the inside jokes. Before long, they’ve slipped right back into it, but the cloud of what happened and what they’ll inevitably have to talk about looms on the edge of the conversation. No matter how easy this feels, he’s still been avoiding Gladio and they both know it. He stands up, intending to finish getting dressed, maybe hang up his towel.

He’s barely managed to put on an old t-shirt when Gladio finally broaches the subject.

“I thought --” Gladio starts.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t - I just _can’t_. With anyone.”

“Sorry,” Gladio mumbles. “Should’ve fuckin’ said something. Asked. Instead of - well. Trying to. You know.”

He hums something, turns back to face Gladio. His back is to a wall, and it’s safer this way. Easier to see what’s coming, not that he thinks Gladio is going to make that mistake again. Gladio’s staring at his own hands, anyway, not even _looking_ at him, and he’s _hungry._ There’s no need to go over this, really. They both know it can’t work, that Gladio’s misguided attempt at being something _more_ doesn’t have any ground to stand on. There’s food in his kitchen, and knowing Noct, it’s something he actually likes.

“Instead of doing… this,” he says, “how about we just skip it? Move right along to something less horrendously awkward.”

“Yeah. Right. Dinner, then?”

He’s slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall before Gladio’s even managed to stand up again. Maybe he’ll luck out, and Gladio won’t stay while he eats. The bag of food is still _warm_ , and it smells heavenly.

Gladio’s watching him from the doorway. He can feel his gaze, the way it makes his skin crawl. Whatever’s bothering him, they’re clearly not done talking. Probably best to eat something _before_ Gladio brings it up, then, because the odds are high he won’t be eating anything after.

He settles in at the table with a plate of food, aware there’s not a whole lot on it. He knows something’s coming. There’s no point in getting food he’s not going to eat right now, not when it’ll be a pain to put it back in boxes and stow it in the fridge. Gladio swipes a dumpling from the edge of the plate and sits across from him, chewing in silence. He sighs and picks at the food, waiting for Gladio to just get it over with.

“I have a few questions. About your… special training. If you don’t mind.”

He does mind. He doesn’t _talk_ about it. He never has, and he definitely doesn’t want to start _now_. Gladio seems to take his silence as permission to proceed, though.

“Dad told me the basics,” Gladio says. “Just the bare minimum of what your training involved. Involves. I had to push him pretty hard to get that much out of him. Shit, Iggy, why didn’t you _say_ something?”

He stays silent, staring at the food in front of him. Of course Noct would know what his favourites were, and of _course_ he’d send Gladio with them. He’s lost his appetite, though, stomach twisting uncomfortably.

“I can’t talk about it. I _can’t_ ,” he says, ashamed of the way his voice breaks, cracking through years of elocution lessons. “It’s best to just… keep all of that locked away in a corner of my mind.”

He pokes idly at his food for a few minutes. Gladio clearly wants to ask more, hands balled into fists on the tabletop. The silence is becoming unbearable, and more than anything he misses his _friend_.

“Did Noct make you bring cake?” he asks.

“You’re concerned about _cake_?”

“Just what, exactly, are you hoping to hear? That I’ve spent half my life letting people _torture_ me in the name of the Crown, and I’ve spent so much time being hurt by people I have to blindly trust to _not kill me_ that I can’t even handle casual contact? And then I’m not even allowed to be _angry_ about it. I asked if you brought cake. _Is there cake_?”

Gladio’s staring at him, mouth agape. He’s dimly aware of what he’s just said, choosing instead to focus on Gladio, staring right back. Has silence always been this loud? Are the seconds actually taking _longer_ to pass? For the first time all night, his hands are perfectly steady, he’s not willing to back down, there’s no urge to run.

Gladio looks down, mumbling an apology as he pushes away from the table. He releases the breath he was holding. His shoulder is starting to burn again, but he locks the pain away before it can take root in his mind. That’s something he can deal with _later_ , when Gladio’s not here, not trying to figure him out, prying into things he has no business _knowing_.

  


The soft clink of a plate being set in front of him snaps him out of his thoughts. A smile sneaks across his face. Noct _did_ send cake.


End file.
